A Fine, Fine Line
by chrishuyen
Summary: [One-Shot, Sherlock/John] It's even worse because he should've expected this all along, should've known this would happen. Sherlock had made it clear from the first day, hadn't he? Sherlock told him he had no interest in pursuing a relationship.


**A Fine, Fine Line**

_It's even worse because he should've expected this all along, should've known this would happen. Sherlock had made it clear from the first day, hadn't he? Sherlock told him he had no interest in pursuing a relationship._

**Origin:** The song this is based off of, "There's a Fine, Fine Line", is from the musical Avenue Q, which I actually saw back in April. I have an unfortunate tendency to relate every song I hear back to Sherlock, and thus, this was born. I came home and wrote it in about a night and then forgot about it for a few months. Then I remembered it, fleshed it out, and forgot about it for another couple weeks. But finally, here it is.

**Disclaimer:** I own neither Avenue Q nor Sherlock. They are both brilliant in their own ways and I can only hope to emulate any of their genius. All credit goes to their respective owners.

**Acknowledgements: **Many thanks to both _shhhecret _and _Dotey_ for being wonderful betas and providing feedback and commentary.

**Note:** Actual lyrics from the song have been removed to comply with Content Guidelines set forth by FanFiction. The full version with lyrics can be read at Archive of Our Own. Link is on my profile.

* * *

Sherlock crowded his space, backed him up to the wall, mouth hot and needy against his. John could vaguely feel himself floating away, dissolving in the torrent that was Sherlock. He brought his hands up to tangle in Sherlock's curls, holding him there to make sure Sherlock knew what John wanted, knew that John wanted this just as much as Sherlock did.

John found there wasn't much he could think of besides _yes_ and _more_ and _Sherlock_.

::

"I'm married to my work, John."

"Then what was all that between us?"

"Transport."

::

"I won't be able to love you. I won't be affectionate or cuddle or do any of the mundane things normal people do."

John considered it, wondered what an affectionate Sherlock would be like. He never expected them to even come this far; it was almost absurd imagining cuddling with Sherlock. But Sherlock's face was open and vulnerable, afraid of being turned away.

He wouldn't ask that of Sherlock. He didn't want Sherlock to change for him.

"I don't care."

::

"I never led you on. I told you from the beginning what you should expect. It's not my fault you made it out to be more."

"I just thought..."

"That you were special? That you could somehow make me love you? I'm a sociopath, John. You've known from the start."

::

"I love you," he whispered against Sherlock's heated skin while they were in bed at night, lips brushing over his heart.

Sherlock said nothing, but John thought he felt Sherlock's arm tighten around him.

He smiled contentedly before drifting off to sleep, senses engulfed in the feeling of Sherlock with him, around him.

::

"So this is it then. You really don't love me. Do you even feel anything at all? After all this time?"

"What did you expect?"

"Christ, I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know what I was thinking, hoping that you would feel at least something."

::

Things were perfect. He followed a mad, brilliant man through the streets of London, chasing after criminals and feeling alive. And afterwards they'd go back to Baker Street where they'd tangle among the sheets and exchange slow languid kisses.

_Yes_, John would think, _I could live the rest of my life like this._

::

"It's not real, John. Love doesn't exist. Merely the combination of hormones and endorphins and adrenaline."

"...is that really what you think?"

"Why would I say it if I thought otherwise?"

::

That morning in Dartmoor, Sherlock had followed him, told him things like "you're amazing" and "you're fantastic" and John nearly smiled because he _mattered_.

Sherlock cared about him, had made an effort to try to make him stay.

And when he opened himself up like that, there was really nothing else John could do _but _stay.

::

"I can't do this Sherlock. I can't live like this with you. I'll always be wanting more and you'll never need me like I thought you did."

"Then leave."

"Maybe I will."

::

It hurts. It fucking _hurts_. And it's even worse because he should've expected this all along, should've known this would happen. Sherlock had made it clear from the first day, hadn't he? Sherlock _told _him he had no interest in pursuing a relationship.

John laughs bitterly, his heart a mangled mess in his chest. It was transport. All of it was just transport. Sherlock was always one to take what was offered with no regard for whether or not it was _right_.

It's John's fault for expecting too much and that makes it hurt all the more.

::

"You don't want this. You don't want me. Here. With you. You don't want _us_."

"While there is no doubt that you can be helpful to me at times, your presence is by no means a necessity. I can get on just as well without you as I can with you."

"Christ, listen to yourself. Do you or don't you want me here? Do you even _know_ what you want?"

"To not be bored. I've told you. There are only two things that matter to me and those are my mind and The Work. Everything else is inconsequential."

::

"This isn't what I expected. It's not what I wanted and I just can't do this anymore, Sherlock."

"Do you even know what _you_ want, John?"

"Something you can't give me, apparently."

He takes one last glance around the room. Sherlock doesn't even do him the courtesy of looking at him.

"I'm leaving," he calls out behind him, wishing, hoping.

All he gets back is silence.

The door clicks shut behind him.

::

They had been so good together, on the job and at home.

He had loved Sherlock, more than he thought he was ever capable of. He had killed for Sherlock, would die for Sherlock-nearly did, in fact.

He thought they'd grow old together.

Where had it all gone wrong?

::

"Harry? Yea, could I stay at your place for a few? No, not for long, just until I can find my own place. Yea, thanks a ton, Harry."

He dreads staying at Harry's, he really does. She'll ask all sorts of questions he doesn't want to answer-he doesn't even have all the answers himself. But he can't stand staying at 221B any longer and he has nowhere else to go.

To Harry's it is.

::

"I wouldn't mind doing this for the rest of my life."

"Hm?"

"This. Us. Whatever it is we do with you running after criminals and me running after you. I could marry you, you know."

Sherlock sat up rather suddenly, sheets clinging to his body, his gaze boring into John's. "You would marry me?"

John squirmed slightly under the scrutiny. "I'm not asking you now, but in the future, yea, I'd think so. If you want."

Sherlock relaxed back into the bed, gaze turned toward the ceiling. "Hm...it would be easier getting past the idiot doctors at the hospital if we were married."

John pulled Sherlock back toward him, loving the smirk playing at the edge of Sherlock's lips. "Hush you, they're just doing their job. But it's something to think about, yea? We have forever to figure it out."

They never do get married.

::

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, I guess it just didn't work out."

"Such a shame. I thought you two were perfect for each other."

"I did too, Mrs. Hudson. I did too."

And he really is sorry. Because he'll miss Mrs. Hudson and the way she fussed over the pair of them, mothering them while simultaneously telling them she wasn't their housekeeper.

He leaves because of Sherlock, but he's losing Mrs. Hudson as well.

::

He's getting older. He's already spent too much time chasing after nothing, a dream that was never a reality. It'll be even harder for him to start over now than when he was first discharged.

He used to have such fantastic dreams of what he would do and where he would be. The bullet in his shoulder had ended that, but he thought he'd gotten a second chance when he met Sherlock, thought there would be another way for him to fulfill all the hopes he'd had.

But this...this is not where he had once envisioned he would be-getting along in his forties with nothing to do but locum work, living alone, and no one to share his life with.

What had happened to all the plans he'd made?

He has to start over. He can do that. He's done it once and he can do it again.

"Hi, I'm John Watson."

"Mary Morston, pleasure to meet you. "

::

Sherlock keeps his back to the doorway, not wanting to see the confirmation of the closed door.

He hears the door open and his heart leaps to his throat against his bidding.

"I hope you're happy with yourself, driving away the only person that has ever loved you as you are." Oh, only Mycroft. Dull.

He refuses to answer, waits until Mycroft sees himself out.

Mycroft doesn't understand. It's all for the best. John could never truly love him.

No one could.

And yet he had deluded himself while it lasted. He'd enjoyed it, believed they were truly in love.

He had believed John when John said he loved him, as he ran his lips over Sherlock's skin, held him close at night, smiled at him-only for him.

Sherlock had thought himself in love with John, and allowed himself to think that it was possible for someone to love him in return.

He knows better. He's always known better than to let sentiment get the better of him. It's all chemical processes anyway, nothing that can't be carefully controlled. But people like to believe what suits them most.

There is, after all, a fine, fine line between a fairy tale and a lie.

He had allowed himself to get carried away, to lose sight of the lines that had once so clearly defined his life.

But now they are in sight again, and he knows the truth. Love is nothing but a waste of time.

He brushes away Lestrade's concern when he shows up to the crime scene without John trailing behind him. He doesn't need John. And he definitely doesn't need _love_.

Besides, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. He's much better off without it.

By removing sentiment from the equation, he can make sure he's once again on the winning side.

So why does it feel like he's just lost everything?

* * *

**A/N:** This is probably the fic I wrote in the shortest time with the longest "editing" time (which just means I forgot about it/got too lazy to go back and work on it), but I'm pretty happy with the result.

Any comments/criticism are always appreciated :)

~chrishuyen

_Word Count: 1,593  
__Posted July 18, 2013  
__Edited August 1, 2013: Removed song lyrics__  
_


End file.
